Quiet Morning Moments
by Initial A
Summary: A two-part reflection on mornings in the Swan-Jones household, and the quiet moments they can find.
1. Killian

Where she moved, he followed. She thrust, he parried. She was the light, he was the dark. They orbited one another, halves of a whole, compatible yet opposite in so many ways.

It never ceased to amuse him how his Swan slept. The only time her guard was down, she filled space with arms and legs flung every which way, her golden tresses spilled not only across her own pillow but his as well.

She looked almost apologetic when she woke to see him so far away from her, but words were not his dear one's strong point in the morning. He learned the hard way (she actually _growled_ at him that first morning!) that she was to be treated lightly, with small words, and gently coddled into her coffee and a shower before decent conversation was an option.

He loved to watch her prepare for her day, wandering around the little apartment from one task to another, mug in hand, most of them begun and left unfinished before moving to something else and eventually circling back. She would shower, and leave her hair wrapped in a towel, absently dressing herself in one or two items of clothing for modesty's sake before remembering her toast and leaving him with the view of her shapely bare ass as she left; luck had so far been on their side where the lad was concerned, as he appeared to have inherited her slow mornings and couldn't be awake to comment. While she left her cosmetics for the end, when her wits had mostly come back from their night's hibernation, she hardly remembered to do anything with her hair: barely using the "hair dryer" and mostly then just to finish the job quickly so she could leave.

Some mornings, she let him run the brush through her hair for her. It wasn't often in the last three centuries that he'd missed the use of his left hand, but for the chance to run her silken locks through his fingers as he worked he would have traded his ship three times over. (though to be honest, he missed his hand anywhere his dearest was concerned; the noises he could elicit from her with one hand were delectable, and the thought of what he could do with two was… well, to say the least it was extremely distracting) She would lean into his touch when he was finished with the brush, dragging his fingers through her hair gently, her eyes half-closed and dangerously close to falling asleep again. He often teased her, saying that his Swan had been replaced by a Cat in the night. (Incidentally, this was also how he discovered her liking for her hair to be pulled and played with during sex—that was also a morning they'd forgotten that Henry was not at Regina's)

Watching her with her cosmetics was also fascinating, for how deftly and swiftly the job was done. One morning he even counted to make sure he wasn't just getting lost in a daze as she did it and no, he wasn't—it really did only take three minutes. She would give him that knowing smirk when he complimented her on it—"Eyeliner, bit of shadow, mascara, gloss, not that hard."

Their quiet mornings had one other routine item that he loved—as they were leaving the apartment, she would stop him in the door, and they'd share their 'good morning' kiss. Oh, there were other kisses in the morning, (the first kiss of the morning when she was more or less conscious, little ones when he finished with her hair or as she wandered the apartment on one of her little tasks, long and lazy ones if they put their morning to a more pleasurable use), but this was their 'good morning', their good luck talisman against the day, their promise, their need and reassurance for one another. Out the door, they were the sheriff and her investigator, and business needed attending to. He needed her like the air he breathed, and their 'good morning' kiss was his last breath of oxygen before letting her go for the day. He loved the slight dazed look about her when they parted, the secret smile just for him, before she would clear her throat and they would go to face the day.

The thing he loved most about their 'good morning' kiss was the promise of 'good evening' when they returned home.


	2. Emma

They shouldn't work. They're too different. How do they work—_why_ do they work?

He was so… not like her. She thought it was because of the difference in their lives: she laid claim to as much space as she could. She never knew when she'd have to fight for it, or when she'd lose it again. Whereas he was used to military life and close quarters, he needed little space and it didn't even need to be that soft to sleep (she would never go back to sleeping on hard surfaces—live-in piratey boyfriends aside)

Another thing: he was always awake. Again, the military-pirate-captain thing. The bastard was the last person to fall asleep but awake again at dawn and lived to watch her wake up, which was embarrassing enough because she was hardly awake by noon, let alone by the time they left the apartment, or even when the damn alarm clock went off. Yet there he was awake and smiling, coffee made and ready for her (only once did he try to talk at her—he was such a talker in the mornings_, why would you do that_—and he quickly learned his lesson about mornings and talking) The worst thing was that Killian looked the best in the morning, so she didn't even have the heart to be mad at him for being awake and cheery and _not hungover_. His stupid sexy hair sticking up all over, the morning light on his bare chest (no clothing for _her_ pirate before it was necessary), looking at her like all the light and goodness in the world came from her.

While she multitasked in the mornings (there was a _system_, Killian, don't ask questions before noon), he was meticulous and thorough. One thing at a time, completely done before the next was started. He would read while she showered, (unless she was awake enough to invite him to join her), sometimes not finishing his chapter until after she was half-dressed. His books were neat and organized on his half of the room, and only his current book would rest on the nightstand, angled just so. He'd kiss her on the cheek before he went to bathe, even if she was texting someone and her toothbrush was still hanging out the side of her mouth.

He was so _rushed_, so _active_, had _such_ a bad habit of throwing himself into a situation with no thought for the consequences, so _full _of putting himself one-hundred percent into a role he played, how on _earth_ was he the tidiest person she'd ever met? Even his damn socks—no, she was done with the socks, never to be spoken of again.

Sometimes she watched him get ready, as she gently toweled her hair dry and ran a comb through it. The kohl was applied carefully (though some days she wasn't sure if he wore it or not—him and his stupid, full, gorgeous sooty eyelashes. And she was careful not to mention the time she'd had him try sunglasses, or else he'd get that glint in his eye and suggest they attempt to break the record they'd set—look, it wasn't her fault he looked like he'd stepped off the tarmac on Top Gun, all right?), the jewelry donned easily even with one hand, the frogs on his vest reattached (he did switch it up with modern clothes on occasion, but he found all the buttons harder than the frogs, and it wasn't like she was going to help him cover himself). Slow, methodical, thorough. Three words she never thought she'd apply to Killian Jones, but they were very, very good words.

Of course, some words were discarded when the occasion arose.

He had this thing for her hair, could hardly keep his hand out of it, and she had a thing for him playing with her hair. She had to limit her own exposure to it, or they'd never get anything done. It was just so damn relaxing, and so damn _aggravating_ when he would find his way to the base of her neck and tug the hair there a little harder than necessary… and just when she started to tense up to turn and rip his clothes off, he'd kiss the side of her neck, untangle himself, and leave her dazed and tingly.

So yeah, she had some payback before they left. If he was going to play dirty and leave her wanting him all day—how did he _do_ that? Even when he'd already shattered her in the shower, or in the bedroom, or both?—she could fully pay him back in kind. He called it their 'good morning' kiss, some kind of charm against the day ahead. She called it a promise for the night. Maybe it was a little overboard to grab him by the lapels and push him against the doorframe, maybe she was being unfair to bite on his lip in that way that made him rumble deep in his chest, and just _maybe_ she shouldn't slide her hands down his back and grab that fantastic ass and pull him into her further, but damn if she didn't need it as much as he did, like it was some kind of lifeline she was clinging to and wouldn't have relief for hours yet. She needed her head clear for the day, and pouring her entire self, her entire need for him into this one kiss to start their day seemed to hold her over for the next twelve hours.

And maybe, just maybe, she loved the way he looked at her when they parted, like she'd poured all the stars in the sky into him. It was scary, how he glowed from how much he loved her, but after a kiss like that? A love like that was armor.

She could face anything, as long as he was by her side.

* * *

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